The Vulcan’s stare had not shifted, nor had his equanimity. “I fail to see how that is relevant to these proceedings.”
“Don’t you? Allow me to enlighten you, Commander. If I’m right, if my assumptions and research are correct, then the test itself is a cheat.”
“Your argument precludes the possibility of a no-win scenario.”
Kirk bridled. He wanted to throw more than just words at the Vulcan. But he could not do so here, now, in this place. Another time and place, however…
“I don’t believe in no-win scenarios.”
“Then not only have you violated the rules,” the commander informed him calmly, “you have failed to understand the principal lesson that is embodied in the test.”
Kirk almost bowed. “I abase myself before your superior knowledge. Please, enlighten me.”
“Gladly. A captain cannot cheat death. The inevitable must be met with as much skill and resolution as possible. When ‘winning’ is self-evidently not an attainable goal, the objective must be to preserve and protect as much as one can. That is a captain’s task. That is the task of whoever is forced to take the Kobayashi Maru test. To achieve what can be achieved when survivability is no longer an option. To achieve—not to evade.”
Kirk replied hastily, but he couldn’t help himself. As it was, it was all he could do to keep from charging across the aisle and slamming his fist into that smug Vulcan face.
“Maybe you just don’t like that I beat your test.”
If his response was intended to elicit an emotive reaction from his accuser it did not come close to succeeding. “I am Vulcan. ‘Like’ is not a verb in our vernacular. I fail to comprehend your indignation,” the Vulcan confessed. “I’ve simply made the logical deduction that when considering your recent performance and your rationalization for the actions you took, that you’re a liar.”
Kirk feigned astonishment. “What an idiot I am for taking that personally.”
“At last: something on which we are agreed. Management of a crisis situation depends on a captain’s certainty that the crew can and will follow orders no matter how desperate or seemingly hopeless the circumstances in which they find themselves. By artificially altering those circumstances you introduced an element that was outside the given parameters of the test. As a consequence those cadets under your ‘command’ had their own responses compromised. To satisfy your own base need to win at all costs, you were willing to sacrifice their performance ratings.”
A murmur rose from some among the assembled. Its tone was not complimentary. Feeling the argument slipping away from him, Kirk tried to counter the Vulcan’s analysis.
“A crisis is by definition a surprise. And a surprise by definition has no parameters. It is whatever it is at the moment it announces itself. Consequently any action taken to counter it is self-evidently valid. Which justifies my actions. In a real-life crisis situation it’s often the actions taken outside accepted rules, regulations, and parameters that result in success. Following the rules—going by the book, if you’ll excuse the cliché—is frequently the quickest path to disaster. Surprise needs to be met with surprise—not predictability. Not by a ship, not by its crew, and not by its captain. Evidently we espouse different approaches to crisis management, Commander. ‘Crisis management’—taken at face value, there’s no rule book for that.”
The Vulcan did not lack for a response to the accused’s diatribe. “Given that your experience in space travel is limited to the day of your birth and a modest subsequent travel interval, you lack the experience necessary to make that judgment. You advocate a methodology based on assumption and emotion, not familiarity and knowledge.”
“Have you taken the test, Commander Spork?”
“Spock. As a Vulcan, I require no additional training to control my narcissism when making command decisions. They are and will always be invariably based on reason, logic, and the facts as they exist in reality. Not as we might wish them to be in order to conveniently fit some private notion of how the universe is supposed to operate.”
Another round of murmuring drifted through the assembled cadets, and for the second time Kirk was aware that he had lost a point in the ongoing debate. At this rate he would not have to worry about being appointed valedictorian. Several additional exchanges like the most recent one and he would find himself cashiered right out of the Academy and on his way back to Iowa.
That scenario frightened him far more than anything the council might do to him.
Despite the Vulcan’s seemingly unassailable rhetorical brilliance Kirk was not lacking for a comeback. He was about to propound it when an officer unexpectedly appeared and marched smartly up to the dais. Handing a hard copy to the commandant, he leaned over and whispered something in the admiral’s ear. This was followed by a short, tense exchange of words. As the intruding officer stepped back, Admiral Barnett rose from his chair. The eyes of the other council members as well as those of every cadet in the amphitheater locked on the commandant.
“This is a Red Alert—all officers are to report to duty stations. All graduating cadets, report to your barracks’ officers in hangar one for immediate assignment. This is not a drill. I repeat—this is not a drill.”
There was doubtless more, a lot more, but it was forestalled by the Academy commandant as he rose to his feet. His gaze swept quickly over the assembled anxious faces—all of which, he reflected, were far too young for what he was about to tell them.
“This hearing is at recess until further notice. Assembly dismissed, attendees to comply with all applicable alert regulations.” Turning and moving fast, he exited out the back of the amphitheater. The rest of the council was close on his heels, talking animatedly among themselves.
A sea of brightly colored uniforms was set in motion as cadets hurried, under control but moving fast, toward the exits. Some conversed loudly and excitedly with friends. Others broke into a run to beat the rush. No one lingered, wanting to be the last out.
Except Kirk. The center of attention a moment earlier, he had been completely forgotten. Abandoned to himself between assembly and council dais, he gazed as if paralyzed at his rapidly emptying surroundings. As he stood there, a familiar figure passed quickly. Unlike during some of their previous encounters, this time Captain Christopher Pike was all business. He spoke tersely in passing.
“Cheating isn’t winning.”
Left alone with that, Kirk stood in silent contemplation of what had so unexpectedly and shockingly befallen him. A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie.
“Come on, Jim. You heard the order.”
He shook himself. “Yes. But the accusation?”
McCoy smiled. “Didn’t you hear the commandant? Recessed. School recess, but not the kind you remember. Let’s move.”
Nodding, Kirk followed his friend out into the corridor. There they quickly found themselves caught up in the flow of uniforms. The atmosphere was thick with excitement and tension. Not with fear; not yet. No one knew why the alarm had been sounded. “This is not a drill.” Which was not conclusive proof they were not embarked on a drill. Starfleet could be infuriatingly fickle about such matters, particularly when a graduating class was involved. Still, they had no choice but to proceed as if the announcement had been based on an unknown reality instead of some bureaucrat’s idea of a clever test. Any cadet who reacted by treating the broadcast as fake would likely wind up a candidate for quick dismissal from the service.
Just as Kirk had been on the verge of becoming. Talk about the hand of Fate. First it had smacked him across the face and knocked him for a loop. Now it was dusting him off and sending him on his way. At least, it was for as long as his trial was in recess, he reminded himself. His trial. His expression darkened as he glanced over at McCoy.
“Who was that pointy-eared bastard?”
McCoy shook his head. “I don’t know—but I like him.”
To a visitor it might have looked as if the main hangar was consumed by pa
nic. What an outsider took for chaos was in fact organized frenzy. Everyone was in motion, no one was standing still. Cadets and other personnel were reporting to stations as their assignments were delivered and occasional conflicts sorted out. Maintenance personnel ignored them all as they proceeded with preparations for launching several dozen shuttles. Support teams checked out ships and loaded equipment. Everyone knew their job, everyone knew where they were supposed to go—if only, in the case of the anxious cadets, to learn their eventual destination.
The commandant’s voice boomed over the swirling mass of Starfleet personnel, not all of whom were human or even humanoid.
“We have a crisis situation. We have received a distress call from Vulcan. Further details will be forthcoming, but as of this moment you are no longer cadets, you are Starfleet officers. I’m afraid that for this year’s class the usual graduation ceremonies will have to be postponed. Your official certifications will be placed in your files, which may be inspected at your leisure—once you are in space. I apologize in advance for any omissions. All complaints due to oversights will be duly reviewed. In any event, you will not have time to monitor their progress. Listen for your assignments. If you do not hear your name called, check with the nearest senior officer.”
As they hurried along one line of shuttles searching for a particular craft, names rang out around Kirk and McCoy as different squad leaders bellowed names and assignments.
“Blake—Newton…Burke—Starbase Three…Counter—Odyssey…Fugeman—Regula One…Gerace—Farragut…Korax—Drake…McCoy—Enterprise.”
There, that was the one they were looking for. Both men turned, heading for the thickset officer standing outside one of numerous identical shuttles. But his destination was not the same as the others’, an excited Kirk knew. Not by a long warp. Around them the litany of assignments continued to ring out.
“…McGrath—Potemkin…Tel’Peh—Bradbury…Davis—Kongo…”
The two cadets halted before the officer who had called McCoy’s name. Behind the busy lieutenant, cadets and other personnel were filing into a waiting shuttle. Trying hard to restrain himself, Kirk confronted the officer.
“Excuse me—you didn’t call my name. Kirk, James T.”
The man looked down at the thin sheet of continuously changing electrophoretic plastic he was holding. “That’s because it’s faded out. You’re on academic probation, Kirk. Pending the result of your hearing, you’re grounded until the council rules on your case.”
When he was nine, Kirk had missed a step, fallen into a creek, and hit his head on a protruding rock. His brother George had jumped in and pulled him out. When he came to, he had looked up and seen the terror in his brother’s face. Now he understood how George felt, since that was exactly how he felt right now.
“But it’s an emergency situation. A general alarm, Red Alert. Starfleet needs every available hand and tentacle!”
The disembarking officer was adamant. “Sorry, Kirk—without authorization I can’t let you on board. You know the regs. Be my neck if I let you pass.” With that he turned and walked away, studying his readout.
A dazed Kirk stumbled away from the shuttle. He wasn’t on the Enterprise. He wasn’t on anything. He would be stuck here on Earth, in an Academy populated by underclassfolk, while every one of his friends and acquaintances soared outsystem, having been flash-promoted in the service of a still-unknown emergency. They would all return as full officers while he…while he…
That same hand returned to his shoulder, comforting this time.
“Jim,” McCoy murmured encouragingly, “they’ll rule in your favor. You had ’em on the ropes. Just drawing out the deliberations the way you did when I bet everyone expected you to roll over and play dead…They’ve got to reinstate you, if only so you can verify the truth of your argument.” He looked behind him. Kirk was his friend, but other imperatives were calling. “Look, Jim—I gotta go.”
Kirk didn’t, couldn’t, look at his friend. He barely managed to mumble, “Yeah—yeah, go…” He forced his face into a half smile.
Torn between friend and future, McCoy pulled away and hurried off. Behind him Kirk had to lean against a nearby pillar to keep from collapsing. There was no reason why he should make the effort, he told himself. Not when everything else he had worked for, everything else he had ever wanted, was falling to pieces around him. Though surrounded by hundreds of cadets, soldiers, support personnel, and others, he was all alone.
Maybe not quite alone.
McCoy was halfway back to his assigned shuttle when a thought hit him. Not as hard or incapacitatingly as the river rock that had knocked out nine-year-old Jim Kirk, but powerfully enough to make him pull up short. A couple of noncoms glanced curiously in his direction as the senior cadet single-mindedly pushed past them, but they made no move to confront him. A Red Alert situation was not the time to be a stickler for military protocol. Besides, the cadet’s insignia identified him as a doctor. Doubtless he had a good reason for ignoring them.
They had no idea.
VII
Kirk spun around angrily as the hand grabbed him. Ready to hit out at anything, he was drawing back a fistful of frustration when he recognized McCoy. Shock at his situation gave way to incomprehension as he stared at his friend.
“What—Bones, what’re you doing?” He nodded past the doctor. “Your shuttle’s waiting. I thought you’d be…”
McCoy was tugging at him. “Shut up and come with me.”
Too numbed by the circumstances that had befallen him to object, Kirk allowed himself to be dragged along. He was so bewildered that he failed to notice Uhura among a group of waiting cadets as McCoy pulled him forward.
“…Jaxa—Endeavor,” an assignments officer was declaiming. “…T’nag—Antares…Uhura—Farragut…”
Farragut? she thought. She’d heard right, but that didn’t make it right. Straining to see over the heads of her fellow cadets, she finally found who she was looking for and broke from the crowd. Noting the look in her eyes, more than one person hurried to get out of her way.
Spock was conferring with several other officers and did not notice her approach. She waited impatiently for the conference to finish. Waited, in fact, exactly one minute. No doubt the Vulcan would have appreciated the precision, but Uhura had no intention of alluding to it.
“Commander—a word? If you can spare me some time?”
Their eyes met and he favored his fellow officers with a slight nod. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Commander and cadet moved off to one side. Spock’s stance was wholly professional.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
Her tone was even and controlled, but there was fire in her eyes. “Was I not one of your top students?”
“Indeed you were,” he replied without hesitation.
“Did I not receive a gold rating for xenolinguistic skills in all categories, from constructive verbalizations to click, whistle, and atmospheric manipulations of all kinds, giving the Academy first place over Kyoto and MIT at the Oxford Linguistics Invitational?”
“An exceptional achievement, to be su—”
Heedless of his superior rank, she interrupted him without so much as a raised hand. “And did I not, on multiple occasions, make it clear that my dream and the reason behind four years of hard work was to serve on the Enterprise?”
“Vociferously and repeatedly, perhaps even to the point of obsession,” he admitted. “Your ability to communicate in that regard was the equal of any of your classroom efforts.”
Uhura took a step forward. Anyone other than Spock might have found the movement threatening. “And yet I was assigned to the Farragut?”
Time hung suspended between them. Viewing the confrontation from afar, a neutral observer might reasonably have expected the Vulcan commander to upbraid the aggressive cadet, not only for her increasingly aggressive tone but for perceptibly intruding on a superior officer’s personal space. The actual consequences were rather differe
nt.
Spock looked away. It was impossible to tell if he did so to avoid the cadet’s laser-like stare—or to see if anyone was watching. His voice also changed, its tenor becoming a touch less professional, a tad less…Vulcan. His reply clearly indicated concern for the agitated young woman standing before him. Concern—and possibly, just possibly, something more. One couldn’t tell from the actual words he spoke, of course.
“I was simply,” he murmured low enough so that no one else could possibly overhear, “trying to avoid the appearance of favoritism.”
She advanced another step, which put her not quite inside his uniform, but close. “Uh-huh.” Fiery eyes dropped to the readout sheet he was holding. The gap remaining between them was barely wide enough for him to hold the thin sheet of radiant plastic without crumpling. “A simple entry mistake by Personnel. Happens all the time. Anyone would understand. I’m on the Enterprise.”
Their eyes held for a long moment. Without further comment he let his gaze drop to his readout. One finger moved against the touch-sensitive material.
“Yes, I believe you are.”
A thin smile crossed her face as she nodded, pivoted smartly on one heel, and stalked off to see to the transfer of her personal effects. Commander Spock watched her go, his gaze following her for longer than was necessary before returning to the essential work at hand.
It took McCoy no time at all to locate the section of hangar he sought. Deemed critical material, the sizable stock of medical gear had been curtained off from less vital supplies. With his still bemused friend in tow, the doctor waited until a worker departed pushing a pallet piled high with stores. Quickly he scanned the contents of several small refrigerated satchels until he found the one he was looking for. Actually it was not the one he was looking for, but given that they had no time to work their way through the considerable stock of equipment, it would have to do. That was what a physician operating under time constraints and in an emergency situation was trained to do, he told himself as he unsealed the container and sorted through its contents.
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